


de profundis

by peppermintcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10.18 coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintcas/pseuds/peppermintcas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, quiet. It’s strangely intimate in the kitchen, the clock reading a little past one a.m., with the lights turned off and nothing but the soft glow of Castiel’s grace suffusing the kitchen with light. Dean takes the seat to Castiel’s right, and his hand drops from his shoulder. Instantly, foolishly, he misses its warmth. “Couldn’t sleep?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	de profundis

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about four days late with this coda, but who cares, right.

Castiel can sense souls again.

He could with the other graces, too, of course—he could tell they were there, just under the skin, shifting and colorful and warm, but everything was muted, dampened by the inherent _wrongness_ of a stranger’s grace. The psychic had told him that all he could get from Castiel’s mind was colors; if he thought Castiel’s mind was colorful then, with his powers waning every day and his back muscles still aching from the brutal loss of his wings, it’s nothing compared to what he feels like now.

He can feel his grace, and it’s like taking a deep breath after being underwater: he doesn’t know how he survived without this power, without the grace that belongs to him, him and only him, not cut from a rogue angel or force-fed to him without consent. Even hours later, alone at the kitchen table, he can remember with stunning clarity exactly how it felt in that library. Metatron’s spell tightening a noose around his neck. The hum of his grace against his temples, just out of reach. He remembers lifting the decorated bottle, every part of his body straining for it, the grace reaching back, pressed against the glass and resonating, humming. If he hadn’t uncorked the bottle, he thinks, the grace would have forced the cork out itself. It would have shattered the glass. It would have done anything to reunite with the angel it was once a part of.

He remembers the bright blue light of clarity, the sudden and abrupt shift of peace, raising all the hairs on his arms. It felt like lightning, crackling down a rod; like a waterfall, pounding inexorably away at the rock it pours over. Like a glacier, cutting its way purposefully through his body, cleaving the old remains of the _other_ grace, reaching down his throat and his windpipe and up to his brain. It filled his lungs; it flowed into his blood. And then when it filled his body, found nowhere else to go, it leaked from his skin and punched outwards: all the pent up power that he couldn’t quite channel, all the anticipation of finding his grace, a year of longing for the weight of wings on his back.

He spreads his palms and watches bright blue light course in his veins, smiling soft and gentle, and thinks, _finally._

That’s how Dean finds him—examining the faintly humming glow in the veins of his wrist, alone in the dark kitchen. Castiel can sense him coming, now: knows the exact frequency of Dean’s soul, knows the color of his mind, whether it’s depressed or angry or content, like it is now. He hesitates by the light switch, Castiel knows; decides to leave it off. And then footsteps. He feels Dean’s hand land, hesitantly, on his shoulder.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, quiet. It’s strangely intimate in the kitchen, the clock reading a little past one a.m., with the lights turned off and nothing but the soft glow of Castiel’s grace suffusing the kitchen with light. Dean takes the seat to Castiel’s right, and his hand drops from his shoulder. Instantly, foolishly, he misses its warmth. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Technically, I don’t need sleep,” Castiel says, low and dry. “I could ask the same of you, though.”

Dean hesitates. In the dim, Castiel can’t read his expression, but he can guess—uncertain, debating whether to tell the truth. But there are no secrets between them now, not in the dark. “The Mark,” Dean says, at last. He pats his left forearm, where Castiel knows the Mark sits, a red, bloody mark on Dean’s beautiful soul. “I usually don’t get much sleep these days, not anymore. The Mark—it keeps me up.”

“Does it keep you up,” Castiel asks, “or do you keep yourself awake so you don’t suffer from the nightmares?”

Dean’s head jerks up. “How do you know about those?”

“I guessed,” Castiel admits. “Things like the Mark don’t come without side effects. I could—” he hesitates, now. “I could help you with the nightmares, if you want.”

“It’s not just the nightmares,” Dean whispers. He bows his head, suddenly looking much older than he is. “It’s just—Cas, I’m scared. I was so hopeful earlier today, with the Book of the Damned…” He inhales deeply, his shoulders shuddering. “I don’t want to die,” he blurts out, and there it is, his trump card laid out on the rough grain of the table.

Castiel acts on instinct. He reaches out, touches a hand to Dean’s forearm. “You won’t,” he promises, with fierce solemnity. And then, because it’s dark and because Dean has bared his soul and because it’s been nagging at him anyway: “Sam and I, we’ve been looking for a cure. You—we didn’t want you to know. Sam thought you’d given up on getting the Mark off your arm. We were afraid you would stop us.”

Dean laughs tiredly. “You guys just don’t know when to recognize a lost cause when you see it,” he says, with a humorless chuckle. Cas hates it—hates the resignation and the fucking blankness of Dean’s eyes, like he’s already made peace with the fact that he’s not going to survive this. He opens his mouth to protest, when Dean’s eyes narrow, like he’s suddenly put two and two together.

“That’s why you got your mojo back, isn’t it?” Dean asks.

Cas lets his grace illuminate the back of the hand still resting on Dean’s forearm, lighting up his veins like a road map. Dean’s eyes are fastened on his hands, glowing softly in the dark; he reaches out and traces the path the grace makes. “Partly, yes,” Castiel says. “Sam and I—we broke Metatron out of Heaven’s jail, took his grace. Made him human.”

Dean looks up at him through his lashes. Castiel feels his heart thump, once, solid. “Payback?” Dean asks.

“Perhaps,” Castiel admits. “We—threatened him. Shot him in the leg. And he told us that my grace was a possible cure for the Mark.”

 “And then?” Dean presses.

“And then he incapacitated me and took off with the demon tablet,” Castiel says. “I don’t know whether Metatron was lying or not, about my grace. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders slump slightly, and he knows from the way Dean’s hand stills on his that he’s clenching his jaw, trying to stave off that doomed wave of hope. Castiel hesitates, and then turns his hand over, so that his fingers brush against the underside of Dean’s wrist. Dean inhales shakily.

“Thanks anyway,” he says, his voice on the point of breaking. When he looks up and away, he’s blinking furiously, but Castiel isn’t fooled. He never is, with Dean.

He takes a breath, and laces his fingers with Dean’s.

There are almost tears pooling in his own eyes by now, but he holds them back. “Dean,” he says gently. “We’ll figure this out. We will. I’ll go track Metatron down; Sam’s probably already started searching out other leads…”

“I can’t hold on that long,” Dean says through gritted teeth. He wipes furiously at his eyes with his free hand, dragging his hand down his face. “The Mark is calling me, Cas. Constantly. I’m not going to hold out much longer. You have the First Blade, and you promised. You have to—you have to—”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel interrupts him, low and fierce. “That’s not an option.”

“Don’t you _get it_?” There’s a rattle and a sharp squeal as Dean shoves back in his seat, tearing his hand away. “I’m going to be a _monster_. I’d rather die human, Cas, for what that’s worth. Just think of it as a mercy killing.”

“This is not as simple as _putting down a dog_ ,” Castiel says angrily, pushing to his feet. “You—Dean, it’s not going to be much longer. All I need to do is find Metatron, see if he was lying—”

“And then what?” Dean asks, whirling on him. He advances until he’s right up in Castiel’s personal space, staring him down. Castiel refuses to budge an inch. “If he wasn’t lying? You give up your grace for me? You lose your angel status because of me? It’s not fucking _worth it_ , Cas.” He shoves his sleeve up, revealing the ugly welt of the Mark. It’s glowing, incensed by Dean’s anger and regret and grief, and radiating such an air of malice that Castiel actually backs up a step. Dean’s lip curls. “See? You know it, too.” He pulls the cuff of the flannel back over the Mark again, so hard that Castiel’s surprised his shirt doesn’t rip. “So just—don’t, man. Don’t bother.”

“I thought you wanted to live,” Castiel says, softly.

It seems to break something in him. Dean’s expression shutters—anger to pain to resignation. “I _do_ ,” he says. “I really do, man, except—there’s no way out.” His mouth twists in a bitter smile. “I’ve finally found something that I can’t find a way out of. Hell, purgatory, the fucking apocalypse, I could deal with. But not this.” He slaps his forearm, shakes his head. His lower lip is trembling dangerously, his voice cracking at the edges. “Not this.”

Castiel reaches up, ignoring the small questioning sound Dean makes, and cups his face. The glow from his grace is lighting up Dean’s eyes, making the tears threatening to spill more obvious. “We will find a cure,” Castiel says, with absolute certainty.

“What makes you think—”

“We will find a cure,” Castiel says, steadily, “because we’re your family and we love you. We’re not giving up on you, Dean.” He has to believe this, in their happy ending. If he doesn’t, he will crumble apart himself.

Dean leans into him, warm and solid and shaking, his arms slipping around Castiel’s torso. He rests his head on Castiel’s shoulder, tucks his face into the crook of his neck and breathes. His hands are hot where they rest in the dip of his back. Castiel smooths a hand up his back, buries his nose in his hair. For several slow, unfurling seconds, it is silent, and Dean’s breathing evens out; his hands loosen from where they’ve gripped Castiel’s shirt, probably wrinkling it to hell.

“If I told you,” Dean whispers, quiet, into his ear, “if I told you that I have—I have things I want to do. Before I die.” His breathing hitches again. “What would you do?”

“You’re not going to die—” Castiel begins, but stops when Dean shakes his head, pleadingly. He gives in, resigned. “I’d do my best to fulfill those desires,” he says simply. His pulse thumps traitorously loud in his throat. “I’d want you to be happy.”

Happiness. A distant concept, in these times.

It is tentatively silent again. Castiel allows himself to observe Dean’s soul, opening his angled cat’s eyes on the soul plane in a way he hasn’t been able to since before his Fall, and sees green, emerald green; sees whiskey shot through with sun, golden amber browns and autumnal oranges and below it, below it all, the black and blue bruises that John Winchester and Hell and the apocalypse and years of trauma left on Dean’s soul. He wishes he could reach out and smooth it away, so the pain wouldn’t still be as sharp as it is now. He wishes that he could simply wipe away the blotch of ugly red that’s slowly been flooding through his soul. He wishes a lot of things.

Dean’s hands have been migrating up his back while he was lost in thought on the soul plane; he pulls back to himself with a blink. There are hands, warm and solid, on his shoulder blades, where his wings would theoretically emerge from in human form.

“Do I deserve that?” Dean asks him, the pain audible in his voice. “Happiness, I mean?”

“You deserve it more than anyone else I’ve ever known,” Castiel tells him, honest.

Dean pulls back, his face inches from Castiel’s, his eyes searching his. His hands slide down, to Castiel’s hips, and his voice is shaky when he asks, “You really believe that, Cas?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. He brings a hand up to Dean’s face, brushing under his eye with his thumb, wiping away a tear. He may not be able to wipe off the Mark of Cain, but he can do this: small, human things, where the sentiment is valued over the usefulness of the motion. His thumb leaves a wet trail across Dean’s cheek, reflecting fragments of Castiel’s still-glowing grace.

Dean laughs. It seems genuine, if a little sad. “Thank you,” he whispers, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Castiel’s. “For—everything. For being here tonight.”

Castiel considers a response, but decides actions speak louder than words, anyway. He leans forward, angles his mouth upwards, and presses a tiny kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. A benediction, a prayer, a plea: _dabit deus his quoque finem_. He lingers there, pulling away slowly. Perhaps he was unwelcome. And then Dean kisses him back, languid and sweet and hot, his hands moving to cup Castiel’s face. They trade like that for a while. Slow, gentle, inevitable, like waves on a beach, like tectonic plates shifting: Castiel leaves a trail of closed-mouth blessings across the road map of Dean's face, and in return Dean gives sweet, open-mouthed kisses, licks hot into his mouth and hesitates each time he leans forward, like he thinks Castiel might push him aside, like he's afraid Castiel will tell him to stop, go away, to leave.

They part by seemingly mutual agreement. It's nice to hover there, for however brief a time: sharing each other's air, in the space they've carved out for themselves within the other, within the bunker.

"You're not going to die," Castiel tells him. A promise made in the dark.

"Okay, Cas," Dean whispers. "Okay."

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _de profundis:_ from the depths; out of despair  
>  _dabit deus his quoque finem:_ God will bring an end to this


End file.
